


Reprise

by septemberlikestea



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Baggage, Getting Back Together, M/M, Memory Loss, Mutual Pining, post-banishment, tagged as nymm/grimm because brumm. ceased to exist. you know how it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21562819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septemberlikestea/pseuds/septemberlikestea
Summary: Nymm lives a life as ordinary as he imagines life in a town such as Dirtmouth to be: quiet, peaceful and charming in many small ways. A week goes by, and though he thinks he is a traveller, he doesn't mind the idea of staying.Everything is fine, until his sleep becomes enthralling in a way that dreams aren't and terrifying in a way that nightmares can't be.
Relationships: Brumm/Grimm (Hollow Knight), Nymm/Grimm (Hollow Knight)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 148





	1. Dreamy

The glass reflects off a strange, sunset-like glimmer of light. Nymm barely understands where he is, and nothing around makes sense, but he knows he’s facing a beautiful evening sky. The pale golden warmth turns to intense amber as his mind says his eyes are moving up, then shifts to a rich red, then the vibrant colors become colder, darker, glittering with white beads of stars. 

A view so gorgeous, he doesn't know if he's allowed to witness it.

“It is quite stunning, isn’t it?”

He nods as he finds a presence to his left. Then, he knows there’s a glass table with gilded metal ornaments, and his own drink is waiting as the mysterious stranger sips on theirs. Nymm reaches for it, only to find the space empty, the glass is already in his hand. He _did_ just look at it. 

It’s hard to know if there’s a floor, or if they’re floating. Is it a room made of glass? That would be a marvelous thing to see, if he knew where he was and how to leave. Right now, the seemingly endless sky only housed him, the stranger and the table.

No, he’s in a chair. They both are. Very comfortable ones too, like they were meant for an audience to come to watch a particularly long show. 

The liquid in the wineglass twitches in a way a living being would. He's finally reunited with his sense of direction when he stares at where his distorted reflection should be. It’s him, he knows that, yet he doesn’t see anything. And he can’t even look at it directly, no matter how much he focuses.

Tired of his mind playing tricks, he drinks. A bold move, considering he doesn't know what it is, besides the fact that it's dark, slightly maroon and a little viscous.

It tastes strange but not unpleasant. The closest thing to it is a memory of an old book, once read with excitement and intrigue, now revisited out of nostalgia.

He sits in silence, watching the clouds paint curious pictures, and the colors bleed into each other. It’s breathtaking, how grand it looks. Nymm could somehow see himself stare at the sky from the side of his head; a reminder that he is a tiny speck that stands out a little too much, that he's too different from the rest of the lambent sunset. A chill runs through him, a foreboding feeling settles. He wasn't invited, was he?

His shell reflects the view, and that interpretation of the sky he allows to be his. Just a temporary, distorted image that will disappear if he leaves, though no less magnificent than what his eyes see.

“Would you like to share this moment with me?” the stranger suggests, a dark blur in the corner of his eye. He’s not sure why he doesn’t look at them. Can he?

They sit in silence, together, as time does not pass. Everything merely swirls around them in a dance too slow to be engaged in. Still, he is a spectator, and this is a performance, so he watches with resignation as the clouds turn into pillars that collapse once they form, not daring to look away. Not wanting to?

It’s nice, he thinks. He could do it forever.

“What is it?” Nymm isn’t quite sure what he thinks he’s asking about but he feels a chuckle from his left. It's warm.

“The sky?”

He already knew that but nods anyway. 

“What do you see in it?” the stranger asks, sounding like they are smiling.

Nymm blinks at the question, a little surprised. He looks straight ahead, his vision is framed by a consistent and bright crimson, which makes the shining gold in the middle seem like a waltzing wildfire.

...So he has seen a wildfire before. A little horrifying, he thinks as he suddenly knows how many creatures fall victim to those. It’s a terrible disaster. The damage caused upsets him far more than the idea of being near it, which doesn't worry him at all.

The stranger sighs, and Nymm feels them set their glass on the table between them; it clacks softly. He tries to do the same but it’s hard, strangely hard to move. He freezes like there's a tight, yet delicate web around him, denying him even the ability to move his head. A masterfully woven trap; a kind you don't feel.

“It would seem our time is up. I hope we meet again, if you’d like to.”

Nymm doesn’t understand why he hears melancholy in that voice he can't describe, but the sadness echoes back in his chest. The friendly stranger is still merely a dark, messy blur in the corner of his eye, and he strains his vision to try to discern movement he's convinced is there. And he's right; he sees them wave a hand, wave him goodbye.

“See you soon?”

Nymm jolts up in his bed.


	2. Distasteful

He fumbles with his accordion, his claws refuse to do anything right today. His fingers are stiff and his hands keep playing out of sync, creating a sad cacophony that can only yearn to be called a song. It hurts to hear.

He never needed to deliberately take time to warm up, did he? At least during his time in Dirtmouth, he hasn't once had any problems with music that he didn't resolve in a minute. And he shouldn't be having any problems now; the melody is not hard. It's quite simple and slow, not something he has any excuse to be struggling with. 

Still, it sounds... awful.

Nymm glances to his right and feels even worse when he sees Elderbug look at him with pity. It’s embarrassing. He’d prefer if they were annoyed, it’s easier to accept criticism than to cope with being viewed as miserable. 

Of course, the idea of pretending he's doing everything properly crosses his mind. The trick of not letting your audience know you played something wrong is a very effective one, if used sparingly. But Nymm has made too many mistakes and has made them too obvious to even try to mask his failures.

“Tired? I know you’d rather not, but maybe rest on this bench here?” they offer, gesturing for him to take a seat. 

He truly doesn’t want to, despite his general appreciation for small details, patterns, and such; he’s not comfortable with even putting his instrument on the ornamented bench. Sitting still on it agitates him, awakes thoughts that usually lie dormant in the depths of his mind. The idea of an old bench that has seen countless bugs, many of whom are most likely dead now, is disturbing; he worries that if he stays too long, the old spirits will cling to him; a very irrational and silly fear to have. He keeps to himself about it, careful not to give his friend any reasons to worry about potential ghosts haunting the town. It's his personal issue, one he's fine with never resolving.

Nymm realises too late that he didn't respond. Elderbug has already moved on from the almost-conversation and began tapping their claws on the walking stick gifted to them by a pale stranger.

He lets himself reminisce how she suddenly appeared, emerging from the cliffs to the west of the small town, and how she was gone in a flash. Her well-made dusty red cloak had frills and spun hypnotically, he recalls, although unsure why it stood out to him. Maybe it’s how the color contrasted against the calm blue of the empty houses. He didn't usually pay attention to what the wanderers passing through were dressed in. Maybe he just happens to only remember details about passersby who hand out walking sticks.

Such generosity. A complete stranger gave a valuable gift to someone she didn't know, unprompted, and here he stands, unable to finish a mere song for his friend.

Reluctantly, he starts to play a tune too facile for him to ruin, as a wordless apology for the dreary wheezing noises from earlier, which even the lumaflies seemed to hate. It's boring and bleak and much shorter than he's used to, but it's all he has to offer. If he were to play another song, he'd no doubt turn it into something horrible.

The song ends, and Nymm sighs as he puts his accordion on his back and awkwardly scratches the back of his right hand; not holding anything is a little uncomfortable. The air feels heavier and colder without music to fill it.

He says goodbye to Elderbug, giving them a small smile, partially to be polite and partially to apologise again. They wave back with an understanding look on their face, but it still makes him suppress a frown. He can do better.

He walks with his head down to the house he has claimed as his own. It’s average but cozy, and he likes the decorations left by previous owners. It’s a sad thought, that the bugs before abandoned some of their belongings. On the bright side, now he cleans and takes care of the dwelling, and the small trinkets hanging from the ceiling have someone to admire them again.

He shouldn't be having such uplifting thoughts. He spent the whole day ruining it for Elderbug, he should be remorseful.

The door squeaks when he opens it, reminding him that he has been putting off fixing it for almost a week. It’s much warmer inside, and Nymm feels a little better once the wind is locked outside. Though he endures the cold well, he doesn't necessarily like it.

Elderbug once said they admired how he could play all day without freezing, to which he responded with a plain ‘It’s the fur.’ They then laughed awkwardly at that and it made him feel bad for not realising it was a compliment.

Nymm barely thinks about what he's doing, having lost track of time wallowing in his sorrow. When he snaps out of his thoughts, the accordion is sitting on a desk in a corner, and he's idly chewing on a vengefly. The taste is dulled down to barely there by the numerous times it’s been boiled, all to drain every single bit of infection. He can only guess that it might’ve been tangy or bittersweet, mostly due to name association. ‘Vengefly’ doesn’t really spell out ‘sugary and soft’.

He sets his unfinished meal back on the plate, and it looks back with its tiny dead eyes. He's not a fan of trying out potentially poisonous dishes but he would rather eat anything other than the dull bugs from right underneath Dirtmouth. Nymm puts the leftovers into a cupboard, tired, but at least not hungry. 

Not for the first time, he wonders what his travels were like. Was the food better, what did he eat? What is the reason he doesn't feel satisfied? He's glad to be here, why is he not content with what he catches?

Maybe it's good that he doesn't remember. With no past memories to compare the present to, he can't complain about how much superior the life was in the lands he probably visited.

The memory of how his accordion sounded is unpleasant and it gets stuck on a loop in his head. There is no concrete reason for his inability to play, just the simple fact he did not play a single song right today.

He can't decide if he doesn't want to read because he's not interested or because he's too tired to focus any of the books from the pile generously given to him by Elderbug. Instead, he sits down on his bed and stares blankly at the floor until his eyes turn heavy, and he goes to sleep. Maybe he just needs rest. 

The wind outside howls, muffled by the walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nymm just Being Awake? yeah man.
> 
> musician struggles,, *pensive* no but seriously sometimes you just cant play and thats just it. you just gotta suck it up. unfortunately nymm forgot thats a thing and is miserable about it.
> 
> also? trying to be positive in hallownest? is exhausting? can you really blame him for being a little.., burnt out...,,


	3. Parlor

He regains control over his body gradually, smoothly drifting back into consciousness. He keenly feels how warmth spreads through his fingers, blood moving again.

...Was he frozen?

His eyes are open, so he blinks. His vision clears from the colourless nothing blinding him, which he wasn't even aware of until it was gone. 

The first thing he sees is that there are hundreds, thousands of empty rows of seats in front of him. Identical off-white, dusty in colour chairs are placed in progressively widening circles. He is sitting in one of them. It has no temperature, which wouldn't be strange, if he didn't know (for some reason) that the other ones were as cold as ice.

The air is perfectly still, the floor is light grey, polished, reflective, and gives off a feeling of being meticulously cleaned. No dust, no dirt or grains of sand tarnish it. Whoever is responsible for the perfect, pure state of the room is certainly very dedicated to their work.

Everything is facing away from something, is it the center of the room? That's an interesting interior design choice, he thinks, is it to hide something? Can he look?

Nymm slowly turns to search for an exit but sees no walls; the rows fade out into a perfectly even ashy mist. As he looks up, he’s met with a lack of a ceiling, that same mist in its place instead. Despite this, it's fairly bright, though not enough to hurt his eyes. If he had to guess, he'd say the lumaflies were a bit underfed, if there were any at all. Maybe whoever took such care of this place used an alternative source of light. He's seen soul-infused silk and its haunting glow, cold and intense.

Where has he seen it?...

He stands up, the chair creaks as it’s pushed back. The sound echoes and echoes despite the lack of anything to echo off of, until it turns to background noise.

Nymm freezes, his body numbs, afraid to move again. Whatever he was thinking of was crushed and turned into nothing by the sound, which was unnaturally loud in comparison to the absolute absence of noise.

He’s still as a statue for what feels like a while, if he can trust himself with measuring time. Nothing happens, there’s no punishment for disturbing the perfect silence of the endless room. He lets himself relax a little and is caught by surprise at how his shoulders whine with pain. How did he not notice how tense he was? 

He looks around again; nothing has changed. The chair he was just sitting in is perfectly in line with the other ones. Whether there's someone who keeps the seats in order, or if the chairs themselves are alive, he doesn't really want to know.

He looks down, at the mirror-like floor. His shell is bright compared to everything else, a dark blue spot in the low forest of monochrome furniture. For the first time, he notices his head has a warm undertone. He always thought it was just a light grey, but maybe the bleak surroundings help him see better.

Nymm snaps away from his reflection, disturbed by how it seemed to breathe slower than him.

The center, he remembers. He wanted to know why everything, including himself, was turned away from it, didn't he?

None of the chairs move when he walks past them. Nymm’s sure he has bumped into at least five, yet he only feels phantom... itching, like he expects it to hurt or sting in some way. His legs don’t carry him smoothly, not at all, but his head feels like it’s been moving strictly forward, in a horizontal line. His body doesn't feel whole, it's confusing.

At the center of the room, a dark figure sits in one of those white chairs. His eyes can’t focus on them, and his temples ache because of it. Everything else, all those seats, the uneven tiles (still as reflective) are all clear to him.

He tries to make them out again, unsuccessfully. He tries a couple more times, vainly. Nymm decides to look a little to the side of the figure, which doesn’t help him see better, but the pain subsides. 

The sitting figure stays blurry at just two rows between them. He stumbles as he’s almost there, and the silhouette perks up at that, alarmed. He doesn’t even know what this place is, nevermind if he should bother them. 

The third sound he hears, first being the creak and second being his own breathing (where were his footsteps?), is a small, light chuckle. Nymm freezes yet again, startled, and for a short second he’s sure he will fall face first on the floor.

“I almost forgot you were here! Please, have a seat.” They gesture at one of the many chairs, their motions are a blurred mess that rouses his headache again. Nymm quitely nods and turns a chair around to face them. It’s strange how he’s suddenly able to interact with it at all, seeing as the rest appeared to have passed straight through him. It's equally strange how the chair is warm. He sits down and nearly makes the mistake of looking directly at them again. “Good day to you.”

“Good day," Nymm greets, a bit surprised at how friendly they were. 

“How have you been faring?”

“I’m doing well." There's a somewhat sour aftertaste on his tongue. “Where am I?”

“This is a waiting room.” 

“...What am I waiting for, then?”

“It’s not up to me to decide,” they shrug. “Is there anything for you to wait for?”

“I... don’t think I quite understand what that means.” Nymm frowns, unsure if there is a proper response to that.

“Ah, it was only a bad ice breaker. My apologies.” His companion shifts in their seat, he thinks they’re crossing their legs, but they might’ve done the opposite, it’s hard to tell. 

They sit in silence for a couple of seconds. In that time, he gathers up courage to ask questions back.

“...What are _ you _ waiting for?”

“Hm. Interesting question,” they muse, tilting their head slightly. “You probably don’t know them.”

“But, what if I do?”

“No, no,” they chuckle and shake their head. “I don’t think they even exist anymore.”

“Oh,” is the only response he has. That was a shameful attempt at small talk. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Please, don’t be.” Despite the casual tone, there’s something else in their voice, a melancholy. They sound tired, Nymm notices. Shouldn't he offer comfort? Play something? 

Play something...

“I think I’m waiting for myself to be competent again,” he mumbles in an attempt to make his thoughts make sense. They don't, and unfortunately, Nymm can't take his words back.

His face heats up, he shouldn’t have said that, he really shouldn’t have. In a split second they straighten up, he hadn't even paid any attention to their posture. The bug in front of him has just essentially confessed they’ve been _mourning_, and now he’s asking for attention and comparing a day of bad music to someone’s _loss_. 

“You’re not incompetent,” they mutter. “Why would you think that?”

“Well, I‘m not lying,” he counters, his face grows hotter from embarrassment; he didn’t want to say that. He’s being horribly inconsiderate, he’s being _selfish_, everything is going so wrong, he's going to boil alive in his shell. “I- forget what I said, it’s nothing.”

“Please, it is not.” Their voice soothes and scares him, did he just unintentionally make them think he’s in a worse state than he is? He might have. He doesn't know how much worse exactly but grimaces at the thought of them genuinely believing he needs comfort or support more than them. "I want to help."

He shouldn't say anything, _no_, he should say something that will change the topic. No, there are no good outcomes for this, he will either make this kind stranger try to console him when he doesn't need to be consoled, or... what? What else can happen?

Nymm’s mouth feels numb, like it’s not his at all, and he barely realises he’s talking until the words echo back in his head, “I just feel _bad_.” 

They stay silent for a couple seconds too long, and it makes his gut twist and turn, what will they say? They have every right to ridicule him, it’s pathetic he’s making a fuss out of this. His problems are small in comparison to theirs, in comparison to this room. Having a bad day will not kill him, nor will it ruin the rest of his life. He probably has had plenty of those before he forgot everything. 

When they finally respond, it’s quiet and soft. “If I may ask, could you at least try to elaborate? Just a little, it would help.”

“I don’t- I don’t know.” Nymm can't tell where their eyes are (or if they have any) but he feels them stare deep into his. He shouldn’t make them worry or be upset about him, he only wanted to make bugs happy since he came to the town. But he's not in Dirtmouth now. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Well, why do you think you might feel this way?” 

“I... don’t know,” he sighs, he's repeating himself. He’s been making his companion carry this conversation for how long? “There’s no reason, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” they hum, more to themselves than to Nymm. Even if it was directed at him, it didn’t sound like it at all. “Or, do you feel bad because you _think_ you feel bad for no reason?'

At first, the words make no sense at all. He frowns and silently repeats them, and the message sinks in. Then, the paralysing realisation that, _yes_, he made them feel obligated to comfort him.

Slowly, he sees the chairs are all facing him. His companion is much further away from him than they used to be, they're not at the center of the room anymore,_ but he is_. 

He's in the spoitlight, center stage; he's being observed. He's the actor who didn't learn the script, who doesn't know the lines, who's ruining everything for everyone. He wants to run off and never be seen again.

“Your hardships aren’t any less real for being simple,” they murmur, careful, kind. He can't tell if they are inches away or in another room completely. 

Any resemblance of composure he had is crumbling before him, and he's vainly clutching its dust; his wish is granted. The world distorts around him, he can’t hear his companion anymore but he thinks they’re saying something important, something he should remember. He’s falling down, they're standing up.

When Nymm jumps up in his bed, there's something wet on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey check out how hard i can project onto my fave! **LHGJKFJDDFSD**  
anyway someone peer pressure nymm into therapy please.


	4. Hunting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: some mild animal death (common in-game enemies dying, not very graphic?), food is a big part of this chapter. if you dont want to read, feel free to ask for a basic summary!
> 
> the traps mentioned in the summary and in the chapter (and most likely in the next chapters): https://septemberlikestea.tumblr.com/post/190335245362/i-cannot-figure-out-how-to-describe-the-traps-for

He’s a bit disorganised and unfocused as he checks if anything got caught in his old traps, disappointed to find most of them empty. His only catch is an unlucky crawlid with a large chunk of it missing, no doubt devoured by other infected pests. 

The creatures here seem to have an insatiable hunger. That's understandable. 

He recalls his own meal with no fondness and only the slightest shadow of obligatory appreciation. The vengefly leftovers were dry and not nearly enough to satisfy his appetite, they only teased him with the barely tolerable, flavourless meat. The stale roots from the cliffs have not been touched ever since he just arrived; hard to chew and bitter, the plant food in Dirtmouth is still somehow worse than the cleansed meat. He will most likely never understand how everyone else seems to not mind it.

Nymm’s opinion doesn’t change as he passes a small bush, which he immediately identifies as the same old bluish grass that grows above. The memory of the aftertaste makes him grimace and he hurries to the entrance to the next passageway.

The faster he walks, the sooner he can leave.

His heartbeat picks up, one trap appears to have been triggered, but his excitement is short lived. A dried, already yellowed trail shows that his dinner-to-be had escaped and crawled into a crack in the floor; he probably should have checked it yesterday instead of going straight to bed. That’s embarrassing.

Nymm picks it up, frowns, and shoves it into his tool bag. He’ll have to clean the infection off of it later, it would do no good if he ruined Sly’s equipment. The lost footsteps of a husk somewhere below him only add to the ongoing list of things that ruin his already sour mood. His eyes are still puffy from... what, exactly? What was he dreaming about?

He shakes the thought away and walks back to the well’s chain.

A couple of crawlid legs would be more of a bite-sized snack than a meal, especially once boiled and dried. He sighs a little too loudly, and his stomach follows up with a reminder of the hunger that drove him down to the Crossroads. If it didn’t ache, he might have stayed under his covers, not even sleeping.

Regardless of how skilled he may be at staring at nothing, there are things to be done, he can't dwell on weird dreams.

Nymm sighs and throws his bag over his shoulder, disappointed. He’s a poor hunter, considering his lack of any training besides vague tips from Sly. With how unlucky he is with traps today, going to Greenpath sounds like a somewhat good idea, a fun one even, although he doesn't consider himself to be the adventurous type (he could’ve been like that, once). He might find something in its lush nooks and crannies.

As he climbs up, the sound of the town’s cold wind helps him clear his head. It’s easier to make decisions there, without the sickening stench of husks. The quiet ambience provided by the cliffs above makes for an ideal place to think. Of course, that has its own downsides, namely not having anything to do besides thinking. 

Finally, he crawls out, and the traps scrape loudly against each other. It feels strangely... satisfying to disturb the silence, maybe he’s too tired to appreciate the peace and quiet. He does feel like his frustration is getting the better of him. 

It’s a good thing no one’s outside to see him, at least. He could be as uncollected and all over the place as he wanted when alone.

* * *

The leaves rustle softly under his feet, some old and withering, some bright and fresh. He passes the sign with something about pilgrimage written on it, he never read it fully. He probably should have, though now it seems weird to do that. 

One day, perhaps, when he’s not busy. If he can decide when he’s busy or not, that is.

The thick scent of acid doesn’t disturb him too much. It won't until he'll go further into the caverns; there, the heavy and humid air amplifies the sour, tear-inducing foggy gas. The smell is not dangerous, despite his head aching slightly when he inhales too much, and it’s not too hard to ignore. 

Nymm carefully walks around spots where liquid leaks from the ceiling. There _is_ water in some remote spots, clean and perfectly fine to drink, but a gut feeling tells him that the drops can only realistically be acid. He doesn’t risk it. Better safe than sorry, is that how it goes?...

Some grass falls into a small pool to his left, it sizzles for a split second and then it’s gone, with not a single trace left. It’s strange, how some plants dissolve in acid and some grow in it. Are the immune ones acidic in taste? He almost wants to try and eat some but shakes the thought away and keeps walking. Not now. Probably not ever, they could be harmful. He has natural resistance to his own venom, like most venomous bugs do, but acid is no venom. Acid is just horrible.

In the back of his mind, where his thoughts are not busy with comparing the liquids, he notices the walls stray further apart. A bigger cavern usually means more inhabitants, and Nymm is confident that it is not unreasonable to set up a trap here. He crouches and puts it on a narrow bridge, where it’s easy enough for him to remember and avoid it. Some leaves to just barely cover it, and he’s on his way again.

Greenpath is deceivingly peaceful. The light from all sorts of lamps is soft and looks beautiful when it passes through mist. If said mist didn’t come from endless acid pools, it would deserve to be admired. Lumaflies float leisurely in the air, lambent, a sign of good health. Noises from creatures he would rather not meet, ever, are mostly muffled by loud sizzling of acid and rustling of leaves.

His eyes begin to itch when he stumbles through a particularly thick bush; a small, possibly young maskfly darts away, raising dust. He's not sure if his eyes are tearing up because of the acid fog or because he's tired; some blooming flower’s pollen, perhaps? If that is the case, it will most definitely get into his fur, and cleaning it will be such a hassle. 

The nail, taken from a husk some time ago and strapped to his back, weighs heavier with each passing minute, he hasn't used it at all yet. There is something about wielding such a weapon that makes his arms a little more reluctant to move than usual. A small part of him wonders if he's guilty of something terrible, maybe it's why he doesn't remember.

Probably not. Hopefully not. 

He crouches down and grabs a trap from his bag without actually thinking of catching anything with it. He doesn't feel like he has the energy to hunt anymore. Strange, considering he hasn't done anything today, really.

Maybe the roots aren't that bad. Or, if he's lucky, something got caught in the trap he hid earlier. Unlikely, but not impossible. The plague does strange things to how bugs perceive the world around, often making them fairly... near-sighted? Nymm doesn't know how it affects living creatures from experience, they might just not understand what a trap is. It's not as if an infected bug can tell anyone what it sees.

Finally, he stands back up and turns around, trap still in hand. He's just unlucky today, that's all. Not his week, it happens.

The trek back takes much longer than he thinks it should, and he briefly worries if he's lost. He was going strictly forward, he made no turns, why is he not approaching the Crossroads? He should have paid more attention to his surroundings. But he would remember if he strayed from the main path, his memory isn't _that_ bad, is it?

The fear of having gotten lost disappears when he notices the sharp petals of his trap partially sunk into a round, slightly disfigured bug, which he doesn't immediately recognise as a mosscreep. Without the signature leafy disguise, it's not as easy to tell it is one, so he doesn't feel too embarrassed about being dumbstruck by the sight.

Carefully and quite slowly, Nymm pries the petals open. The ones that simply pressed against the shell are easy to pull away, unlike the ones that somehow pierced through. His hands are thoroughly stained with translucent blood and clots of infection by the time he gets the mosscreep out of his trap. If it was alive, it would be a vastly different process, probably quite a violent one.

In such situations, it's probably not immoral or vile to be glad something's dead, he thinks.

* * *

The boiled mosscreep tastes barely any different than a tiktik, aside from having a bit of a sour aftertaste. It's surprisingly enjoyable. Incredibly plain, as expected of something that was cleansed so thoroughly, but alright in comparison. 

He doesn't save any part of it for later. He still has the crawlid legs, which are, despite not being a good breakfast, edible.

There are things he knows he _should_ do, like clean the traps and play something on his accordion, but his eyes still haven't stopped itching. It's nice to close them, but each time he does, he struggles more and more with opening them again. Maybe it's fine to take a break? He doesn't usually venture out so far and for so long, doesn't he deserve to relax?

The feeling he gets when he finally allows himself to lie down is something akin to being blessed. At least, that's how he imagines being blessed.

He drifts off with ease, warm and comfortable. This one time, everything else can wait. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took Forever. sorry! a lot was happening and this chapter went through quite a lot of changes! 
> 
> ill give you this: i originally planned for nymm to almost get shaw'd by a certain demigod. also i wanted him to eat a leaf and then spit it out bc like...... lotta acid. lotta plants. acidic plants is the only logical conclusion. i have never read a biology textbook in my life.
> 
> also nymm being venomous is based enitrely off of this post: https://rukafais.tumblr.com/post/188776261401/i-wanna-hug-brumm-but-i-feel-like-his-fluff-is . sorry but it just..... gives me Ideas. 
> 
> up next: i get to make jokes! hopefully!


	5. Leisure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI, HELLO, HAPPY THIRD ANNIVERSARY TO HK,,,...... THIS IS ALL I. HAVE. AT THE MOMENT.
> 
> also....... i have rewritten chapters 1, 2 and 3 because uh. Reasons. theyre good now, i promise. ch3 was good already but now its. even better. i would recommend rereading them!..... not chapter 4 though. its the same. i mean? you can reread it if you want to. ignore this if you never saw the version of ch1 that took like thirty seconds to read.
> 
> anyway,
> 
> wwelcome to. projection town,

"Which one would you like?"

Nymm squints and glances around, the world takes shape both too rapidly and frustratingly slowly. Things he can’t yet see demand his attention, some colorless furniture or maybe just tacky decor blinks into existence. Deciding it probably doesn’t matter that much if he can’t see it, he looks back in the direction the sound came from. Two chess pieces are in front of him, standing neatly on a small, square table; one is crimson, one is ash white. Kings, he recognises.

"I don't have black pieces, so this may appear a little unconventional. My apologies."

He struggles slightly to move his eyes up, the colors smear together, but the silhouette in front of him is... familiar? He blinks, everything around him clears up, objects gain distinct edges, except for that dark blur. Has he seen them before? He can't remember but he frantically tries to choose whether to believe he knows them or does not.

"I'll be red," Nymm replies, and a decision is made. He doesn't get to know which option he just picked.

He reaches out to take his king and place it on its square, the rest of his pieces are already on the board. To his left, light from a large window (which seems to have appeared there a mere second ago) shines brightly. The intricate shadows cast by welded lattices distort the chessboard, insignificantly, but he's more interested in how different his companion’s silhouette is. Was he able to tell the shape of their head before?

He tries to make out their face, at least some features, but a sudden (though sort of expected) splitting headache forces him to look back down at the board. It disappears just as quickly, replaced by the smallest bit of disappointment at being unable to see who they are. It's not a real problem, so that means he will forget about it and move on. 

"Why are we playing chess?" he asks, out of curiosity and because of the worry of appearing impolite if he didn't try to start a conversation.

"I find it enjoyable, that's all," his opponent says with a hint of a smile in their voice, moving a pawn one square forward. Their hands stay smeared despite the piece appearing completely normal. "Although, I am not very... skilled at it, so I do find it necessary to apologise in advance. This might be quite boring."

Nymm tilts his head slightly to get a better look at their curious-looking pawn. Its big head has two stubby horns that point downwards and a disproportionately small body with a fine ornament etched on it. He can even see a small crack carved into its right side. It's strangely endearing to see such detailed work. 

"I don't think I'm good at it either, so I suppose we are equal here," he admits with an awkward laugh and moves a pawn of his own two squares forward.

"Oh, sorry then," they hum and place another pawn right next to the first one. They murmur, "I'm apologising quite a lot today, aren't I?"

He carefully chooses not to respond, afraid of saying something that will upset them in some way, and a stiff silence forms between the two. If they wanted him to answer, if it mattered, they can always ask again. And they said it fairly quietly, therefore it would not be weird to say that he didn't hear them. It’s fine.

He tries to focus more on his strategy; he has probably heard about chess players being impressively strategic and analytical. Maybe.

The following few minutes are roughly what Nymm expects an ordinary chess game to be: a couple of pawns move from both sides, then knights are involved, they move a rook to his side of the board. In an attempt to make his opponent move it back, he dares to move his queen, which is one very odd piece; he can't quite understand why it's as long as almost three squares. Still, other pieces pass just fine through it, so he tries not to think about it too much.

Neither of them speak for those several moves, marble clacks softly against marble. A very pleasant, distracting sound, if he weren't playing, he would take a piece and tap it against the board for a while. In fact, it distracts him so well, he doesn’t notice his opponent make an opening for their bishop to cross half of the entire board and knock his knight over.

The noise is loud, in comparison to everything else he's heard in this strange, inconsistent place. He fights the urge to jump up in his seat from being startled.

"Are you going easy on me on purpose?" they ask, sounding mildly amused. He catches a hint of pride in their tone.

"If I were, I would have given up a pawn instead," he mutters, embarrassed. He should have paid more attention. It would be humiliating to lose another important piece like that. Although, knights might not be so good, since they lack the mobility of other, better chessmen; that _is_ why his companion's bishop captured it, isn't it? "You did that very well. The... capture? Was very well executed?..." he mumbles uncertainly in an attempt to compliment them. It comes out awkward and plain and he feels his face turn red because he didn't realise how little he knew about chess until now. 

"Why, thank you!"

Nymm hears them laugh quietly, muffled by something, are they covering their mouth? Regardless, that's probably his cue to put the piece away.

He quickly leans forward, turning his head away to not get another headache, and reaches for his fallen knight. They might have thought him to be a little weird for not picking it up when they knocked it over. Hopefully they didn't, but he's sure he won't ever get to ask them about it. For some reason, it doesn't feel like he's going to befriend them. 

...But does he _want_ to befriend them?

He hurriedly tries to grab the piece, his fingers only find the cold, smooth stone of the board. He should look. A small headache is harmless. He's not supposed to be so concerned over picking up a mere chessman. Why does he worry? 

In a split second, he identifies a blur before him as a hand. That split second is too short for him to stop and move back and let them take the captured piece. It's too short to do anything besides watch helplessly as-

Their hands merely brush against each other. It happens in less than a blink, his fingers simply accidentally touch theirs. There is nothing special about it.

Inside his shell, his hand _burns_.

”Ah,” the stranger hums, without any shock Nymm feels they should have made audible, because they _must_ be shocked, but it's only an acknowledgment that it did just happen. They put their hand away, their movements are as smeared as always and, for reasons he doesn't know, distressing.

Some sound, some weak, basic response, gets caught in his throat, similar to how his heart is a thrashing vengefly, caged in his chest. He feels disoriented and unreasonably nervous, like he broke an unspoken rule of immeasurable importance.

He is aware, to the point that it hurts, of how ridiculous he must look to them, stunned over nothing. He is also uncomfortably aware of how out of place he is in this open hall. It's mostly monochrome, the tiles are cracked in some places, seemingly faded from the sun's light greenery, none of which he can identify, grows in the walls, hangs from the ceiling. An abandoned, beautiful old building, a castle reclaimed by nature. Tulle curtains form, the air takes shape and comes alive. It's a wonder. 

Maybe he would be more enrapt by it, if he weren't a bright, shiny blue spot, whose shaking is as easy to see as a lumafly in the dark.

Nymm's hand still hovers over the knight, nothing is keeping him in place, but his body refuses to cooperate. A feverish, intense kind of burning crawls over his back, the most sickening embarrassment; he’s not supposed to care about something as insignifcant as this. Even (or maybe because of) knowing that, he's still so _distraught_.

Maybe it's fine if he stays like this, this must pass at some point, he will calm down eventually. Embarrassment cannot kill anyone, he is not an expection to that. This doesn't mean anything. If it does, then he won't be thinking about it when... When what? What will happen to him? 

"I'm sorry," they startle him back to reality. "We don't have to play chess."

"It's fine," he hears. It takes Nymm a good second to realise it's his own voice. He barely feels the chessman when he finally, _finally_ takes it. That was not hard, but he still struggled.

The light from the window is exposing, like it's putting him on the spot. Like it's looking at him through the barbed latticework. Glares at his miserable failures from behind prison bars.

He's unsure if he's the prisoner. But he does want to escape this and never come back, however charming the hall might be.

"Still," they sigh, the concern in their tone clears his mind of whatever haze overcame him. "I should have asked you if you were interested at all. I'm sorry."

"It's fine," he repeats, his voice is no less foreign to him than it was a few moments ago.

"Please, is there something else you would like to do?"

Nymm pretends to not hear them. If he ignores the dread spreading through him and making his limbs shake, then he will eventually stop thinking about it.

"It's my turn, now, right? Here," he says abruptly and tries to grab a piece. Any piece.

Of course, because luck has firmly decided to avoid him today, he doesn't quite manage to do it. In fact, his hand effortlessly passes straight through the ghostly bishop and the board, as if the cold, stable, solid marble is not there at all. And maybe it isn't, considering he can still see his hand, despite the fact that it probably should be somewhere inside the table, where it should not be visible.

He's so inattentive. If he'd only noticed that he only had one bishop from the very beginning. Then, if they didn't find a replacement for it, he wouldn't be in this situation now.

He thinks he should fear the dark, blurry hands slowly moving closer to his wrist. They stop just a small bit away from it.

"May I?" his companion asks carefully. He half-nods, mostly just letting his head drop. 

When he anticipates burning, there's only delicate fingers, which are very real, not fog-like and not matching their owner's blurry appearance, pulling his hand back to where it makes sense for it to be, out and away from the chessboard. It doesn't feel wrong or frightening. It's fine, and he's fine. He was right; he is already over it. It didn't even matter.

"I'm so very sorry I have upset you again." Again? "Would you like to talk about something not... chess-related? You don't have to, of course."

"...Why not?" he sighs. He should at least make up for all of what happened with a decent-ish conversation. He is exhausted by his unreasonable panic and doesn't have the energy to be cheerful, it wouldn't feel right anyway. At the same time, he doesn't want their impression of him to be that he is a constantly overreacting mess of a bug.

"Well then. Do you do anything in your spare time?"

Nymm grimaces; he didn't even touch his accordion yesterday. 

...Was it yesterday?

"I'm a musician, mostly, I think."

"Oh, really? Well, that's lovely," they muse, and the genuine warmth in their tone makes him awkwardly try to stop being pitiful. The hesitation that slips through his mental filter is him asking for reassurance, which he doesn't need. "I'm sure you play wonderful tunes, my dear... acquaintance?"

"How formal," he laughs and tries to not dwell on how strange they sounded. "I'm alright. I haven't seen-- I don't know anyone I can compare myself to."

"Why judge your skills based on others? You can look back at how far _you_ have come, instead. It's much fairer to compare youself only to your past self, don't you think so?"

He probably shouldn't confess about being amnesic to someone he barely knows. He does, anyway, because that's the most special thing about him. He's already said that to everyone he knows, what's the harm in telling that to one more person?

"I don't remember my past or my 'past self'," he says with tired frustration that he didn't know he had and regrets it all immediately.

A silence follows. Nymm pretends that he's not uncomfortable and doesn't feel them stare at him. Their reaction is expected, everyone in town was also surprised to hear that a traveller didn't remember where they came from and where they've been.

Everything around him shifts once more, this time becoming something too familiar, something too detailed, somehow more and less real. He feels even more out of place, like the world around him is actively trying to force him out. 

The floor, with dull fern and faded red clovers growing through the many cracks, suddenly interests him greatly. Lush pale verdant vines crawl over what he thinks might be a drawer or a wardrobe. It's all fascinating and all not enough to keep him from wanting to take his words back.

A lot (or maybe just a long bit) of time passes before he hears a quiet, fading murmur.

"Nothing at all?"

His heartbeat is overwhelmingly loud and frantic when he wakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun game: drink water everytime grimm apologises. youll be so hydrated.
> 
> happy 3rd anniversary hk AGAIN because you cant say it too much. im almost two hours late here.


End file.
